Brian Kittrell - The Immortals of Myrdwyer

“What? I cannot be curious?” she asked, smiling. “When I met you, I saw an opportunity to learn how to cast those spells I read about in my books. Will you teach me?”

“Very well, but it’s not something to be undertaken lightly. So long as you realize that, we can proceed.” He reached into his boot and handed her his beginner wand. “This is a wand, the most basic of casting implements.”

She ran her fingers along the shaft, examining the intricate carvings of runic symbols. “What’s its purpose?”

“To hold your attention while you concentrate. To prepare and cast a spell, you require concentration, an utterance, and an implement like a wand. All of those things come together and manifest into an event-a spell.”

She stood. “What will I learn first? Fire? Lightning?”

“Not so fast.” He chuckled. “You must learn to crawl before you can walk. First, I shall teach you of the dreaded vibrancy illusion.”

“Dreaded?”

He laughed. “My sister hated it. I can still see the look on her face when I last practiced with her-a grimace of disdain for the simpler aspects of magic.”

“Did you train her?”

“No, not exactly, I merely tutored her in addition to my mother’s teachings.” He drew his scepter from his boot. “The vibrancy illusion is nothing more than the conjuration of harmless light. It’s mostly useless, but it is a spell you must learn and master.”

Raising the scepter, he chanted the words and swayed the rod. A pale green light dripped from the ruby. Maintaining the spell, he drew shapes in the air that briefly remained before fading away. Her eyes lit up at the spectacle, then he released the spell. He repeated the incantation several times until she could vocalize it without his help.

Nothing happened when she said the spell-not a spark, glimmer, or glint. She shook the wand violently. “Why isn’t this thing working?”

Laedron dodged out of the way of the wand. “It won’t work on its own, for a wand is only a tool; the user must be skilled in its use.”

“What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re not concentrating.”

“I am.”

“You’re not,” he insisted. “Introversion. You must go within yourself, to the depths of your very being. Summoning magic is the act of going against reality to affect change.”

She nodded, then started again. He paced in circles around her while repeating the incantation until she could say the words without his help. As a sparkle of light appeared at the end of the wand, he smiled.

She gasped, her face full of excitement, but she must have lost her concentration because the light faded away. “I did it! Did you see?”

He felt as Ismerelda must have upon seeing a student succeed. The apprentice has become the teacher . “Yes. Very good. Now, again.”

She took a deep breath and exhaled, then extended the wand. Chanting the words, she waved the wand to and fro. A glimmer of light appeared just beyond the tip. He noticed her face turning red, the veins in her neck tensing beneath the skin, and a sway in her hips. The headache’s coming on strong now, but she resists. Watching her, he became amazed at how fiercely she fought the urge to end the spell. Such vigor. Good.

“Let go,” he said. “Let it go before you lose consciousness.”

Releasing the spell, she fell to her knees, dropped the wand, and grabbed the sides of her head with both hands. “Unbearable!”

He crouched beside her and put his hand on her back, a move that Ismerelda and his mother would probably have frowned upon had they seen it. ‘A mage must suffer in solitude. Otherwise, he will never learn to cope,’ Ma had said. Can I not show her some compassion? Some understanding? Is there only one true way to instruct a student?

Though obviously in pain, she smiled at his touch. “I can only imagine what you must feel when you conjure your spells, the ones far greater than this.”

“It gets easier.” He helped her to her feet. “With practice, you build up a tolerance. While you continue your learning, that tolerance becomes a resistance, and you learn to forge through the pain.”

“How long does it take?”

“After a few weeks, you’ll learn to anticipate the headaches and stop before they grow too intense, and as you go along, you’ll find the pain easier to bear.”

“Weeks?” She lowered the wand.

“Does that disappoint you?”

“I only mean to say that we may need to take it slow. The pain is greater than any I’ve ever experienced.”

“’Tis only the beginning.” He opened his spellbook and tore away the pages with his writing, leaving only the blank ones. “Take your notes in this. You need it more than I do.” Lifting the cover of one of Ismerelda’s spellbooks, he slid his old notes inside.

* * *

With the morning light pouring through the disheveled curtains, Laedron cast a spell to reinvigorate Valyrie’s body, then exited into the hall. He found Marac and Brice coming out of their room at the same time. “Let’s see about getting something to eat.”

Descending the stairs, Laedron detected the scent of steamed oats and fresh-cut fruit-apples, pears, and peaches, if his nostrils and memory did not betray. Upon reaching the base of the stairs, he turned and walked over to the innkeeper. “Do you offer meals for your renters?”

“Indeed. A breakfast of porridge comes with the room, but we have other things if you don’t care for the stuff.”

“Porridge?” Laedron asked, glancing at the others joining him before returning his gaze to the innkeeper. “What’s that?”

“Boiled oats.”

Laedron wrinkled his upper lip. “What other things do you have?”

“Whatever you’d like,” the innkeeper replied, gesturing at the long table. “Over there.”

Laedron nodded, then walked over to the table, sat, and retrieved three apples from a bowl. He wasn’t able to make out much of the inn the night before due to the dark, but he could tell that the innkeeper cared more about the tavern than the lodgings. The curtains didn’t have holes, the linens were clean, and the chairs and tables were in far better condition than the beds and dressers in the rooms.

Marac inspected the fruit bowl, then selected some pears. Valyrie and Brice joined them, each with a bowl of porridge in hand. Brice took the sugar, milk, and spices right after Valyrie, as if he didn’t know how boiled oats were best eaten and was merely following her lead.

Laedron unfolded the scrap of paper Jurgen had given him just before their departure from Azura. “We passed this street on the way here. Twelve Pinecrest.”

“A house?” Marac asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine, but Jurgen looked through old church ledgers and discovered that address to be the source of the books.”

“Better place than any to start,” Brice said.

“Finish up. I’m going to see if I can find anything out about the place.” Laedron rose and walked over to the innkeeper. “Are you familiar with this address?”

The innkeeper read over the scrap of paper that Laedron had produced. “Aye. A left from here, then your first right. About halfway down that street, you’ll find it.”

“Do you know what lies there?”

“Twelve Pinecrest,” the innkeeper repeated aloud, scratching the scruff of his neck. “The bakery? No, that’s nine or ten. Oh, yes. I remember now. A shop of books and paper goods. It’s been there for quite some time.”

“Ever been? Met the owner?”

“No, lad, not I.” The innkeeper scrubbed an old stain refusing to release its grip on the wooden counter. “Never been one for books, if I’m being honest.”

“My thanks,” Laedron said, folding the paper and returning to the table.